Judgmental prick.
“And what of my other request?” Arion says. Frost spreads over my skin, making my movements jolting and uneven. The still-healing wound on my ankle burns. That voice…it’s as smooth and commanding as it was the last time we met.
I’m afraid of him. Only a fool wouldn’t be.
Thorne stands, and I angle my head to watch him as he reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a small wooden box.
The magical trace.
He dips his head again, holding it out as a servant takes it from him and presents it to the king.
Arion’s hum slides over my ears as he opens the box. I tilt my head up farther just in time to see the white light wash over his face. The corner of his mouth quirks up.
“Excellent. Very well done, Warden Thorne.”
“It has been my pleasure.”
Pleasure to be a traitor, I think.
Thorne bows once more and then retreats a few paces behind me.
“Now I would inspect my bride,” the king says.
I inhale a deep breath, straightening, and take a few steps up the stairs. Arion’s eyes burn into my skin.
Smile, I remind myself. I turn off my mind, ignoring the fact that I am surrounded by those who would use me as the thin string that will prevent the axe from falling on those I love.
Not for the first time, I realize just how often and frequently I refer to the city that I will never see again as my home. As if the Enduares are still my people.
I suppose they always will be, but I need to stop thinking it so often, or it will inevitably slip out. That would be just another thing that could be used against me by the king.
The elves are my people now. This is my new home. I must learn to live with my choices, bitter as they might be.
Thorn coughs again, and I drop into another deep curtsy, trying to display my gown in the most attractive manner. The flowy garment fans out around me, the delicate green brocade glinting in the golden light.
“Arlet the Weaver,” he says slowly, and I wonder if he knows about my ascension into the Enduar Court. He must have, with all the information he has been able to procure about me over the last year. He just refuses to use my title. “At last, you stand in my palace. Just where you belong. My bride. Thank you for your help.” He lifts the box slightly.
I dip my head a little farther, trying to make sure that the serene smile doesn’t slip from my face, even as guilt makes my chest constrict and my ankle throbs.
“Are you pleased to be my bride, human?” he asks sharply.
“Yes, my king,” I say without hesitation, though acid rises up my throat, creating an icy feeling at the back of my mouth.
“Look at me, then.”
My head lifts, but I avoid eye contact, just as I was taught. The air shifts.
“I said: look at me.”
A jolt skitters down my spine. Finally, I tilt my chin up, meeting his unnaturally green eyes and sharp, frozen features. His hair, so blond it’s practically white, is framed around a silver crown that looks like branches reaching around his head. He is cruelly handsome.
Lethally beautiful.
I smile back at his coldness, and the corner of his mouth twitches up.
“Lovely as I remember, and obedient enough,” he says softly. “Stand.”
I obey, and he reaches out, grabbing my waist. I gasp, hating the feel as he roughly turns me around.